All credit goes to the original creator of one of my favorite gay erotic stories @happytreefriend
Friend claims his cock has a powerful effect on other guys.
"I'm telling you, it's true," Rick says, his voice thick with that cocky assurance that's been grating on me all night.
We're sprawled on opposite ends of his sagging leather couch, the air in his apartment heavy with the stale reek of beer cans, burnt pizza crust, and the low hum of the PlayStation flickering on the TV. The living room is a chaotic snapshot of college life--empty bottles cluttering the scuffed coffee table, a pizza box with one greasy slice, Bio 101 textbooks gathering dust since we got paired for a lab assignment a few weeks ago. Rick's just another 20-something like me--average height, average build, brown hair, brown eyes, a face you'd forget in a crowd. But what he's claiming now? That's some wild, unhinged bullshit.
He says his cock has a power. That any guy who looks at it becomes helpless, unable to resist. I laugh, sharp and forced, but a knot of unease twists in my gut, coiling tighter with every second his smirk holds steady.
"You're telling me," I say, leaning forward, my beer bottle slick with condensation, "that if I, a straight dude who's never even thought about dudes, look at your dick, I'll just... lose my fucking mind? Like it's got some kind of voodoo?" I roll my eyes, trying to mask the tremor in my voice, but my pulse is racing, betraying me.
"Every time, Chris," Rick says, his eyes glinting like polished obsidian in the dim glow of the floor lamp. He's slouched back, one arm slung over the couch, his faded jeans hugging his thighs in a way that's starting to irritate me because I noticed. "No man can resist. It's like a superpower."
"Maybe your dick's auditioning for the next Avengers movie," I shoot back, and we both laugh, the tension easing for a split second. But his grin doesn't fade, and it's burrowing under my skin, like he's playing a game I don't know the rules to.
"Okay," I say, crossing my arms, the fabric of my T-shirt pulling tight across my chest, "say I believe you, which I don't. Why aren't women crawling all over you then?"
"That's the thing," Rick says, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial purr that sends a shiver down my spine. "It only works on guys. I do alright with the ladies, but men? They go fucking wild for it." His eyes lock on mine, unblinking, and a flush creeps up my neck, hot and unwelcome, like he's daring me to step into his trap.
"Total bullshit," I say, shaking my head, my fingers gripping the beer bottle so hard my knuckles whiten. "You're just fucking with me."
"How about a wager?" Rick says, his grin sharpening to a razor's edge. "I show you my cock. If you can resist it for 24 hours, I'll give you five hundred bucks."
I raise an eyebrow, the number catching my attention. Five hundred bucks would cover my overdue rent, maybe a new controller after I smashed mine in a rage last week. "You're that confident? Define 'resist.'"
"You'll know," he says, his voice low, almost a growl, and the knot in my chest tightens, squeezing my breath. "You'll feel it."
I take a long swig of my beer, the bitter cold grounding me for a moment. "And if I don't resist? What do you get?"
"Don't worry," Rick says, his eyes never leaving mine, dark and piercing. "That part takes care of itself."
I hesitate, my mind racing like a hamster on a wheel. Easiest money I'll ever make. I'm straight. I've been jerking off to thoughts of Rebecca Amberton from Bio class--her tight sweaters, that flirty laugh that makes my stomach flip. No way some dude's junk is gonna change that. "Bet," I say, holding out my hand, my voice steadier than I feel.
We shake, his grip firm, his skin warm, and a strange tingle shoots up my arm, like static electricity that lingers. I pull back, shaking it off. Just the beer.
Rick stands, moving to the center of the room, the TV's blue glow casting shadows across his body, highlighting the lean lines of his frame. "Ready?" he asks, his fingers already at the button of his jeans, his voice laced with challenge.
"Let's see what you got," I say, forcing a smirk, but my throat's tight, my mouth dry despite the beer.
He unbuttons his jeans, the zipper's rasp slicing through the quiet room like a knife, and pushes them down with his boxers, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock dangles there, soft, circumcised, completely shaved, the skin smooth and pale in the dim light. It's... normal. Average. I expected something freakish, something to justify his wild claim, but this is just a dick, unremarkable as the rest of him.
I laugh, the sound shakier than I'd like, more nervous than mocking. "This is it? Your big superpower? Looks like every other dick in the gym showers."
Rick's grin doesn't falter, his eyes locked on me like a predator sizing up prey. "It's not as strong soft," he says, stepping closer, his cock swaying slightly with the movement, catching the light. "Trust me, if it was hard, you'd be on your knees already."
"Yeah, right," I scoff, but my eyes linger, unbidden, on the smooth curve of it, the slight heft as it hangs there, heavy and... inviting. No. Fuck no. I force my gaze to the floor, the pizza box, the scuffed coffee table--anything else. But there's a buzz in my head, like static, and a warmth spreading through my chest, pooling low in my groin. My jeans feel tighter, my cock stirring, and I shift, crossing my legs to hide it. It's just the beer. Just the late hour. But a nagging thought creeps in--what would it look like hard? Thick, veined, pulsing? I shake my head, horrified, clenching my jaw to push it away.
"Chris," Rick says, his voice cutting through the haze like a blade.
"Yeah?" I snap, my eyes flicking to the TV, the wall, anywhere but his crotch.
"You've been staring for twenty minutes."
"What?" I fumble for my phone, my hands clumsy, fingers trembling as I check the time. My stomach drops like a stone. He's right. Twenty minutes gone, and I've been... staring, lost in the sight of his cock, wondering how it would swell, harden, curve. My face burns, a hot flush creeping up my neck, and I force my eyes to the ceiling, the flickering TV, anything but him. "No way. You're fucking with me."
He steps closer, his bare feet silent on the threadbare rug, and I feel his presence, heavy, inescapable, like a weight pressing on my chest. "I think you've seen enough," he says, bending to pull up his pants, his cock disappearing from view.
Don't. The thought is so loud, so sudden, I bite my tongue to keep it in, the metallic taste grounding me for a second. My heart's pounding, a frantic drumbeat, and I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms until they sting. Get it together, Chris. You're not this guy. "It's 11 p.m.," I say, my voice rough, cracking at the edges. "By this time tomorrow, you're paying me five hundred bucks."
"We'll see," Rick says, zipping up, his grin sharp as a blade. "I'm crashing. Couch is yours."
"Thanks," I mutter, sinking deeper into the couch as he saunters to his bedroom, the door clicking shut with a finality that makes my stomach lurch. I'm alone now, the TV's hum a faint drone against the chaos in my head. I finish my beer, the taste sour and flat, and lie down, staring at the cracked ceiling. I try to summon Rebecca--her curves, her smile, the way her laugh makes my dick hard--but my mind betrays me, dragging me back to Rick's cock, soft, dangling, taunting me with its ordinariness. What would it look like hard? The thought loops, unbidden, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it away. It's nothing. You're straight. You're in control. But my dreams are relentless--his cock, hard, thick, massive, filling my vision, my mouth, my everything.
I wake with a jolt, my cock throbbing against my jeans, so hard it's painful, straining against the denim like it's trying to break free. The room's flooded with morning light, the air warm and stale, and my phone reads 11 a.m. Twelve hours down, halfway to the money. But my body feels... wrong. My jeans are too tight, not just at the crotch but around my hips, my ass, like they've shrunk in the wash. The denim digs into my skin, constricting, and I shift uncomfortably, feeling a strange weight in my lower body, like my ass is heavier, rounder. I shake it off, blaming the lumpy couch, the restless sleep, and stumble to the bathroom, my erection making every step awkward.
In the mirror, my reflection looks... off. My face is softer, my jawline less sharp, my lips fuller, almost pouty, catching the light in a way that makes them look glossy. What the fuck? I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it grounding me, and grip the sink, my knuckles white. Get it together, Chris. But my mind is already slipping, that image of Rick's cock--soft, unremarkable--flashing behind my eyes, followed by a vivid, unwanted vision of it hard, thick, veined, the head glistening. No. Stop. I clench my teeth, my cock twitching, and force the thought away. I don't have to stay here. I can leave, avoid Rick and his stupid "superpower" until 11 p.m., and walk away with five hundred bucks. That's the plan--get out, stay out, keep my head clear. I'm straight. I'm in control.
I grab my keys from the coffee table, my movements jerky, my jeans chafing with every step, and head for the door. Rick's in the kitchen, wearing nothing but black boxer briefs and a fitted T-shirt that clings to his lean frame, the outline of his cock a faint bulge under the thin fabric. My throat tightens, my pulse spiking, and that image flashes again--his cock, hard, curving, pulsing. No. Fuck no. I force my eyes to the scuffed linoleum floor, the chipped countertop, anywhere but him.
"Morning," he says, smirking, pouring coffee into a chipped mug, the rich, bitter scent filling the air. "Sleep well? Had some good dreams?"
My face heats, a flush creeping up my neck. "What?" I snap, my voice rough from sleep, my hands clenching around my keys.
"Saw you on the couch earlier," he says, stepping closer, his bare feet silent on the floor. "You were out cold, but, uh... quite the tent in your pants." His smirk widens, his eyes glinting with amusement, like he knows exactly what's been running through my head.
I flush harder, scrambling for a lie. "Yeah, uh, dreaming about Rebecca Amberton. Fucking her good." The words tumble out too fast, unconvincing even to me, and the thought of Rick's cock--hard, thick, glistening--crashes through my lie, making my cock twitch.
"Oh, I'll bet," he says, his tone dripping with mockery. He pulls out his phone, swiping lazily. "Speaking of, I almost forgot--I wanna show you something."
I should leave. I should bolt for the door, get in my car, and drive until this bet is over. But my feet stay rooted, my eyes flicking to his phone despite myself, the image of his cock--what would it look like hard?--looping in my mind like a broken record. "You know Sean McDonaldson?" he asks, his voice casual but laced with intent.
"Yeah," I say, my stomach tightening. Sean's a wrestler from Bio, all muscle and bravado, the kind of guy who'd never...
Rick hands me the phone, and my breath catches, my fingers trembling as I grip it. It's a photo--Rick's POV, him standing, Sean on his knees, naked, his lips wrapped around Rick's cock. Sean's eyes are closed, his face scrunched in concentration, only the base of Rick's thick, veined cock visible. My mind reels, picturing how much of it is in Sean's mouth, his throat, and that forbidden thought--what if it was hard, fully hard, in front of me?--sends a jolt of heat through me, my cock twitching in my too-tight jeans.
Before I can speak, Rick swipes to another photo, and my jaw drops. It's Mr. Groverton, the physics professor, on his knees, his wedding band glinting as he looks up at the camera, two inches of Rick's thick cock visible, the rest buried in his mouth. My breath hitches, my eyes locked on the image, imagining the weight, the heat, the taste, and that thought--hard, thick, pulsing--loops louder, drowning out my resistance. My cock throbs, and I hate myself for it.
"I have many more of these," Rick says, taking the phone back, his voice low and smug. "I told you, it's inevitable."
"Not me," I say, my voice shaking, barely a whisper. I force my legs to move, stumbling toward the door, the image of Rick's cock--soft, but what if it's hard?--burning in my mind. "I'm leaving. You'll see me at 11 p.m. with my money."
"What's the matter?" Rick calls, his tone mocking. "Scared you can't handle it?"
I don't answer, slamming the door behind me, the hallway's mildew-and-air-freshener stench a sharp contrast to the heat of Rick's apartment. I'm free. I'm winning. But that thought--what does it look like hard?--follows me, relentless, a siren call I can't silence.
I drive downtown, the radio blaring pop-punk to drown out the image of Rick's cock, but it's no use. Every red light, every pause, it's there--soft, dangling, but my mind paints it hard, thick, veined, the head glistening with precum, curving upward like a fucking masterpiece. No. Stop. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, my jeans digging into my hips, my ass, like they're a size too small. The denim chafes, constricting, and I feel a strange weight in my lower body, like my ass is heavier, rounder. I shake it off, blaming the seat, the stress, but my cock twitches, half-hard, as I picture Rick's cock--hard, pulsing, in my hand, my mouth. No. I'm straight. I'm not doing this.
I park at the mall, figuring I'll kill time at a coffee shop, wander the stores, anything to keep my head clear until 11 p.m. But as I step out of my beat-up Honda, my body feels... heavier, my ass swaying in a way it never has, each step sending a strange jiggle through my lower body. People glance my way--guys, girls, their eyes lingering on my hips, my backside. I flush, tugging at my T-shirt, which feels shorter, barely covering my waist, exposing a strip of skin. What the hell? I shake it off and head into a coffee shop, the air thick with the scent of espresso and pastries. The barista, a guy with a man bun and a lip piercing, gives me a long look, his eyes flicking to my ass. "Bold look," he says, smirking, and I laugh it off, ordering a black coffee, but my hand brushes my hip, and it feels... curvier, softer, like my body's reshaping itself. It's just the jeans.
I sip my coffee, scrolling my phone, but my mind's a battlefield. Rick's cock. Hard. Thick. Veined. The head purple, slick. I clench my jaw, forcing my thoughts to Rebecca--her tits, her laugh--but they slide back, unbidden, to Rick's cock, imagining it swelling, hardening, the weight of it in my palm. No. You're not gay. You're not a fucking bimbo. My cock twitches, leaking precum, and I shift, the wet spot in my jeans humiliating but undeniable. I need a distraction.
I wander the mall, restless, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, my mind looping that image--Rick's cock, hard, curving, dripping. I pass a salon, its neon sign flashing "Walk-Ins Welcome," and something pulls me inside, an urge I can't name, like a hand guiding me. The air smells of hairspray, floral shampoo, and vanilla, and a stylist with vibrant purple hair claps her hands. "Oh, honey, we're gonna make you shine," she says, ushering me to a chair before I can protest.
"Just a trim," I say, my voice distant, my mind flashing to Rick's cock--hard, thick, in my mouth. I shake my head, horrified, but the stylist's already talking about weaves, volume, a "total refresh," and I nod, the buzz in my head drowning out my resistance. She weaves in long, glossy extensions, the hair cascading past my shoulders in silky, jet-black waves that catch the light like liquid obsidian. When she spins me to the mirror, I blink--my hair's thicker, shinier, framing a face that looks... prettier, my lips fuller, almost pouty, glistening in the salon's fluorescent glow. It's just a new style, I tell myself, ignoring the unease, but my mind slips back--Rick's cock, hard, pulsing. No. Focus on the bet.
Next, I'm in a nail salon, though I don't recall deciding to go. The air smells of acetone and polish, and I hear myself say, "Something bold," my voice soft, dreamy, my thoughts consumed by Rick's cock--hard, veined, the head glistening. The technician paints my nails a glossy hot pink, adding sparkly rhinestone tips that glitter like tiny stars. I flex my fingers, the long nails clicking, feeling foreign but... right, like they belong. Just a fun change, I think, pushing down the voice screaming that this isn't me, my mind looping--what would it feel like, hard, in my hand?
I pass a cosmetic clinic, a sign advertising "quick lip enhancements," and before I can stop myself, I'm in a chair, a needle pricking my lips. "Just a touch of volume," the technician says, her voice soothing, and I nod, dazed, the buzz louder now, like a swarm of bees in my skull, Rick's cock--hard, thick, dripping--dominating my thoughts. When she hands me a mirror, my lips are plump, glossy, almost cartoonishly full, catching the light like they're begging to be noticed. I touch them, shocked but strangely thrilled, a pulse of arousal mixing with my horror. It's just a trend. But my mind screams--those lips, wrapped around Rick's hard cock. No. Stop.
At a boutique, I'm drawn to a rack of tight, colorful clothes, my hands grabbing a pair of black yoga pants, stretchy and glossy, like liquid latex. "These'll be comfy," I mutter, ignoring how my ass feels heavier, rounder, like it's ballooning out with every step, my thoughts consumed--Rick's cock, hard, curving, in my mouth. In the changing room, I slip them on, the fabric clinging to my new curves, accentuating a plump, juicy backside that's definitely not mine. I catch my reflection--long, glossy weave, sparkly nails, plump lips, and yoga pants hugging an ass that jiggles with every move--and feel a rush of confidence. I look good. I'm winning this bet. But deep down, the battle rages--Rick's cock, hard, thick, pulsing. No. You're straight. You're not going back.
I spend the day drifting--coffee shops, bookstores, the mall's fluorescent lights glinting off my nails, my hair swishing, my yoga pants stretching with every step. People stare--guys, girls, doesn't matter--and I smirk, thinking it's my new swagger, not noticing how my hips sway, how my ass bounces, or how my lips pout naturally now, glossy and inviting. My mind is a warzone, every moment punctuated by that image--Rick's cock, hard, veined, the head slick with precum. I clench my fists, my nails digging in, trying to think of Rebecca, of football, of anything else, but it's relentless, a siren call that makes my cock leak, my jeans soaked with precum by noon. I'm not gay. I'm not a bimbo. I'm winning. But the thought loops, endless, tormenting--what would it feel like, hard, in my mouth?
By 10 p.m., I'm 23 hours into the bet, buzzing with confidence despite the battle in my head. I've stayed away from Rick. I've fought the urge, the obsession with his cock--hard, thick, pulsing--and I'm going to win. Five hundred bucks is mine.
I drive to Rick's apartment complex, my yoga pants swishing with every step, my long weave bouncing, my pink nails glinting under the streetlights. My lips feel heavy, slick with cherry-flavored gloss I bought on impulse, the sweet taste lingering on my tongue. I'm Chris, straight guy, about to collect my money, and I stride to his door with a swagger I don't question, oblivious to the bimbo staring back from the glass panel--long, glossy hair, plump lips, sparkly nails, and a curvy, jiggly ass spilling out of tight yoga pants like a porn star's wet dream.
Rick opens the door, his eyes widening, his grin spreading slow and wicked, like a wolf spotting prey. He's in tight jeans, his cock's bulge straining against the denim, and my stomach flips, that buzz roaring back like a tidal wave, the image I've fought all day--Rick's cock, hard, thick, glistening--crashing through my defenses. "Well, fuck, Chris," he says, his voice low, almost reverent, as he steps back to take me in, his eyes raking over my yoga pants, my impossibly round ass, my glossy lips. "Look at you. My finest fucking bimbo creation yet."
"What?" I snap, crossing my arms, my nails clicking, my hair tickling my shoulders, sending a shiver down my spine. My voice is higher, softer, like it's not quite mine. "I stayed away. It's 10 p.m. I win."
Rick laughs, a deep, rumbling sound that makes my cock twitch, despite my resolve. "Oh, you're a goddamn masterpiece," he says, circling me like a sculptor admiring his work, his eyes locked on my yoga pants, the way they hug my plump, juicy ass. "That ass--holy shit, it's perfect. Never seen one fill out like that, so round, so fucking fuckable." He runs a hand through my weave, tugging lightly, and I gasp, my lips tingling, a pulse of heat shooting to my groin. "The hair, the nails, those lips... you're a walking fantasy, Chris. My best bimbo yet."
I flush, my face burning, but I plant my feet, my hands on my hips, ignoring how the movement makes my ass jiggle. "I'm not a bimbo," I say, my voice trembling, less convincing than I want. "I'm here for my money. I didn't give in." But the thought I've fought all day--Rick's cock, hard, thick, pulsing--loops louder, making my cock leak, the yoga pants clinging to the wet spot.
"Sure you didn't," Rick says, smirking, pulling out his phone. "But let's take a look at my collection first. My 'before and after' gallery." He swipes through photos, his grin widening, predatory. "Check it."
I lean in, my heart pounding, and see before and after pictures of strangers, all transformed into bimbos, their "after" shots dripping with slutty allure, Rick's cock in their mouths, their eyes glazed with devotion.
"And you," Rick says, turning the phone to a live camera, showing my reflection. I freeze, my breath catching. My weave cascades in glossy waves, my pink nails sparkle, my lips are plump and shiny, and my yoga pants cling to a massive, juicy ass that's not mine, jiggling with every slight movement. I look like a porn star, a perfect bimbo, and my cock throbs, hard and aching, betraying me.
"No," I whisper, my voice cracking, my hands trembling as I touch my lips, my hair, feeling the weight of my new ass in the tight pants. "This isn't... I'm not..." I step back, my heart pounding, my mind screaming at me to run, to fight, to hold onto who I am. I'm straight. I'm Chris. I'm winning this bet. But the buzz is deafening, and my eyes drop to Rick's bulge, the outline of his cock thick and tempting, the image I've obsessed over all day--hard, thick, glistening--overwhelming me.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Rick says, stepping closer, his hand grazing my ass, squeezing its new fullness, sending a jolt of pleasure through me that makes my knees weak. "Look at that ass, so round, so fucking perfect. You're my masterpiece, Chris." He unzips his jeans, his thick, eight-inch cock springing free, hard and curving upward, the fat purple head glistening with precum, exactly as I've imagined it all day--thick, veined, pulsing, a fucking work of art. "One hour left. You gonna make it?"
I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms, the pain sharp but not enough to break the spell. "I'm not... I'm not doing this," I say, my voice shaking, my eyes locked on his cock despite every effort to look away. Walk away, Chris. You're straight. You've got Rebecca, you've got a life. But my body's betraying me, my cock straining against the yoga pants, a wet spot spreading as I leak precum, my new ass swaying as I shift my weight. That image--hard, thick, pulsing--is all I've thought about, and now it's here, inches from my face, real and inescapable.
"Tell me you don't want it," Rick says, his voice low, commanding, as he strokes his cock slowly, each movement hypnotic, the head glistening, the slit winking at me with every pump. "Tell me you're not dying to taste it."
"I don't," I lie, my voice barely a whisper, my lips tingling, my mouth watering. I take a step back, my ass bumping the coffee table, the jiggle sending another wave of heat through me. "I'm not... I'm not gay. I'm not your fucking bimbo." The words are desperate, a last stand, but my eyes are glued to his cock, my mind foggy with that buzz, that need, the obsession that's tormented me all day--hard, thick, pulsing, in my mouth.
"Then walk away," Rick says, stepping closer, his cock inches from my face, the musky scent of him filling my lungs, intoxicating, exactly as I've imagined. "Go on, Chris. Win your bet."
I try. I turn, my weave swishing, my nails clicking as I grip the table, willing my legs to move. Run. You're straight. You're not this. I picture Rebecca, her tits, her laugh, but it's fading, replaced by the vivid, pulsing reality of Rick's cock--thick, veined, the head slick and inviting, everything I've fought to resist. My mouth waters, my lips parting, and I hate myself for it, my cock throbbing, my ass heavy and round in the tight pants.
"Just one taste," Rick says, his voice soft, coaxing, his hand tangling in my weave, tugging gently, sending a shiver through me. "Prove you can handle it."
"No," I moan, my voice breaking, but I'm sinking to my knees, the linoleum cold against my skin, my yoga pants stretching as my ass jiggles. My face is level with his cock, inches away, the heat radiating from it, the scent overwhelming--musky, salty, intoxicating. Get up, Chris. Run. But my hands move, trembling, reaching for his thighs, my pink nails glinting as I grip him, steadying myself, my mind screaming--No, no, no--but my body's screaming louder--Yes, taste it, worship it.
"Touch it," Rick says, his voice a command now, and my hand wraps around his shaft, the heat of it searing my palm, the skin smooth and firm, exactly as I've imagined all day--thick, veined, pulsing. My cock pulses, leaking more, the wet spot spreading, and I stroke him, slow at first, feeling him harden fully, eight inches of thick, curving meat, the head purple and glistening, a bead of precum dripping from the slit. My mind screams, a final cry of resistance--You're not this guy, you're not a bimbo, you're not gay--but the buzz drowns it out, and I lean forward, my glossy lips brushing the tip, the salty taste exploding on my tongue.
"Fuck," I moan, my resistance shattering, but I pull back, my hand still stroking, my eyes locked on his cock. "No... I can't... I'm not..." I clench my other hand, my nails digging in, trying to anchor myself, but the sight of it--hard, thick, pulsing--is everything I've obsessed over, and my lips ache to take it again.
"Fight it all you want," Rick says, his voice rough, his cock twitching in my hand. "But you're mine, Chris. Beg for it."
"No," I whisper, my voice cracking, but I'm leaning closer, my breath hot against his cock, my lips brushing the head again, the taste lingering, pulling me in. Get up. Run. But my hand keeps stroking, my weave falling over my face, my ass jiggling as I shift on my knees. "I'm not... please..." The word slips out, a plea, and I hate myself for it, my cock throbbing, my mind a haze of need.
"Beg," Rick says, his hand tightening in my weave, pulling my head back so I'm looking up at him, his cock brushing my lips, teasing me. "Show me how much you need it."
"Please," I moan, the word raw, shameful, my resistance crumbling as the obsession that's tortured me all day--hard, thick, pulsing--takes over. "Please, Rick, let me... let me have it. I need your cock. It's... it's everything." I'm shaking, my cock still hard despite leaking, my ass heavy and round, my lips aching to take him. I kiss the tip, slow and reverent, my tongue swirling, worshipping every inch, my mind blank except for him.
"That's it," Rick groans, his hand guiding me, and I take him into my mouth, the thick head sliding past my plump lips, filling me with heat and weight. I gag as he hits the back of my throat, my eyes watering, but I don't pull back, driven by a mindless need to please, to worship. My tongue swirls around the head, flicking the slit, savoring the salty precum, and my cock explodes in my pants, a hot, wet rush soaking the yoga pants as I cum without touching myself.
"Fuck, Chris," Rick groans, his hand tightening in my weave. "Suck my dick, you perfect bimbo slut."
I moan around his cock, the vibration making him groan louder, and I bob my head, my lips sliding over his shaft, my tongue lashing the underside, feeling the pulse of his urethra. My new ass jiggles as I rock on my knees, my nails digging into his thighs, leaving pink marks. I gag again, louder, my throat constricting, but I push deeper, desperate to take more, to prove something--to him, to myself, I don't know.
"Please," I whimper, pulling back just enough to speak, my lips slick with spit and precum, strands connecting me to his cock. "Please, Rick, let me worship it. I need it so bad." The words pour out, my mind empty except for his cock, my body trembling with need, the obsession that's consumed me all day finally winning.
"Keep going," Rick says, his voice hoarse, snapping photos with his phone, the flash blinding me as I suck him back in, gagging as he thrusts, his hips rocking, his cock slamming against my throat. "Fuck, you're perfect," he says. "Look at you, my best bimbo, choking on my dick with that fat ass and those slutty lips."
I moan, my throat burning, my eyes streaming, but I don't stop, bobbing faster, my lips sliding, my tongue working, my hands gripping his thighs. He thrusts harder, his hands in my weave, pulling tight, and I cum again, my cock twitching, soaking my yoga pants further, the wet fabric clinging to me.
"Gonna cum," Rick growls, his cock swelling in my mouth. "Take it, Chris. Swallow every drop, you bimbo slut."
I nod, gagging, my lips stretched around him, and he explodes, hot jets of cum hitting the back of my throat, filling my mouth. I swallow frantically, the salty heat sliding down, warming my belly, and I keep sucking, milking every drop, my tongue flicking the slit to get the last bits. My identity is gone--I'm not Chris, not straight, just a bimbo, a cocksucker, existing only for Rick's cock.
"Good girl," Rick says, out of breath, pulling out with a wet pop, a final drop of cum on my lips. I lick it off, savoring the taste, my body trembling. He grabs a paper towel, tossing it to me. "Clean up your mess," he says, pointing to the puddle of my cum on the floor.
I wipe it up, my legs shaky as I stand, my yoga pants sticking to me, my ass jiggling. The clock reads 10:30 p.m.--I've lost, but I don't care. Rick steps closer, his hand squeezing my ass, his eyes gleaming. "This ass, these lips, this hair--you're my best yet, Chris. My perfect bimbo."
I moan, my cock twitching again, and follow him to the living room, excited for what will happen next.
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